After a surprisingly peaceful crossing of the Duero, the host was finally on the last leg of their journey toward Burgos, already on the horizon, illuminated by the fading light of late afternoon. The sun, already low in the sky, cast a dull golden hue over the city, with the spires of the cathedral and the bell towers of churches standing tall against the wintry sky. The air was crisp but not unpleasant, carrying the promise of an approaching cold yet tolerable night. The sight of Burgos itself, after their long journey, brought a wave of relief to the weary travelers.

“It’s almost as if the very air here has a different scent… So familiar…” Urraca remarked with excitement as she finally recognized a landscape she knew well.

The group followed the road into the city, entering through one of its ancient gates. “I remember my sister mentioning that our uncle’s sword was found nearby,” Urraca continued, her excitement barely contained as they passed through the arched gateway, “it’s been so long since I’ve been here…”

The Enochians couldn’t help but smile, sharing in the nostalgic warmth that Urraca radiated.

Soon, they found themselves in the Jewish Quarter of Burgos: The narrow streets formed a maze of cobblestones and overhanging balconies, where the last rays of sunlight danced calmly upon the stony facades. The quarter, surprisingly still vibrant with life, saw its merchants closing their stalls for the day, while candles inside the houses began to flicker one by one. Tariq’s gaze lingered on the mezuzahs affixed to each doorpost, curiosity piqued as he wondered about the inscriptions they bore.

“I’ve never been to this part of the city,” the young woman marveled, her eyes wide as she took in the sights. “It’s curious how I’ve traveled to the farthest reaches of Iberia, yet I never knew this side of the city I thought I knew,” she giggled with a touch of wonder in her voice.

Tariq and Julien knew exactly why Urraca had never been to this part of the city before, but they chose to remain silent on the matter. “Since you seem so acclimated to Burgos, why don’t you stay here?” Julien suggested, his tone light but sincere, “maybe we can speak to the local lord about hosting you. I’m sure they wouldn’t reject a noblewoman’s request; it should be safe enough.”

“And even if they don’t offer their hospitality, finding a caravan from here to León shouldn’t be difficult,” Tariq added, “the roads between the capital of Castile and the capital of León are always bustling with activity. Your father might still be there, too.”

Urraca’s brief smile faded into a more serious expression: “Well, in any case, it’s almost nightfall, and perhaps we should focus on finding a place to stay. My fate can wait until tomorrow.”

The young Enochian sensed an undertone of sadness in her voice. Could she be feeling sorrow at the thought of parting ways with us? He wondered.

“Well, I counted a few bell towers on the horizon as we rode,” Julien spoke, pointing to the right, “should we try to find refuge in one? That one seems to be the closest.”

With an accepting nod, Tariq began to walk as soon as Julien finished his suggestion. “I know little of these parts and the people who inhabit them, in all honesty, but speaking with the local clergy shouldn’t hurt, as far as I know.”

…

The bell tower Julien had seen from afar proved to be quite elusive: Despite the square, robust structure of the tower being tall and impressive, the church itself was surprisingly modest - Romanesque to its core, resembling a small fortress more than a house of God. The walls bore simple carvings of motifs that Julien couldn’t quite identify in the dim light, and the doors, though normal in size, were heavy and sturdy.

After a few knocks on said door, the weak voice of an older man echoed from the other side, filled to the brim with annoyance: “Who goes there?” The voice demanded.

“Are you the priest who leads this parish?” Tariq replied immediately, his voice adopting a different accent than usual, much to the surprise of both Urraca and Julien.

“Yes. Why?” the old voice responded, sounding even more irritated.

“We are Enochians, Father, seeking shelter for the night,” the experienced Enochian said solemnly, “we vow to depart on our God-given quest as soon as the sun rises.”

There was no immediate reply. Instead, they heard the rattling and clanking of locks being undone, followed by the creak of a small crack opening in the door - just enough for the old man to peer through and scrutinize the visitors. “Your accent is unmistakably Basque, but you don’t look like a Basque,” he commented, puzzled, “why is that?”

Tariq appeared slightly bothered but met the priest’s gaze directly: “I have roots in the region, good Father,” he explained. “My grandfather hailed from Navarra.”

After a few more moments of further silent scrutiny, the priest finally opened the door to admit them. “Welcome to the church of Santa Gadea. You may find yourselves a bench to sleep on here in the nave - that’s the extent of my hospitality. The rest of the church is is off-limits.”

As they followed the priest through the badly lit church, Julien couldn’t resist voicing the question that he knew was burning inside Urraca’s mind as well. In a hushed tone, he asked: “Why did you speak in a different accent?” His eyes were fixed on the back of Tariq’s head as he walked in front of the young Enochian.

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“And is it true you have Basque ancestors?” Urraca quickly added, overflowing with curiosity.

Without turning to them, Tariq replied after a subtle sigh: “I figured the priest would be more inclined to open the church’s doors to someone who spoke with a somehow familiar accent.” Finally, he glanced back at them: “And I have no ancestors from here.”

Julien’s attention, however, was soon drawn away from Tariq: The interior of the church was much nicer than he had anticipated, despite its clear emphasis on sturdiness and austerity. The wooden benches were well-preserved, the chancel screen bore an intricate carving of the Crucifixion, and though the altar was a simple stone table, it was adorned with decorative elements that Julien, as lay as he was, couldn’t properly name - a fine tapestry, a beautiful silver goblet, an unfamiliar type of candleholder….

“Just don’t break anything, alright?” The priest barked, calling Julien’s concentration back to him, “it’s not like we’re swimming in denars here.”

“This place… it feels eerily familiar,” Urraca murmured, her gaze sweeping the church interior. “Could it be that I’ve been here before?”

“I find that quite hard to believe, young lady,” the priest retorted somehow dismissively, “people passing through Burgos usually visit San Juan, not our humble church. In fact, God knows what would become of us if not for our benefactor’s aid.”

“Benefactor?” Tariq voiced, intrigued, “may I know the name of such a benevolent figure?”

“Rodrigo Díaz is his name,” the priest responded with a note of pride, “from the nearby Vivar. Are you acquainted with the man?”

Urraca and Julien’s eyes widened in shock, as if the priest had uttered the name of a devil. Tariq, however, managed to keep his emotions well-hidden.

“No need for words then, - I can see you’ve met him,” the priest observed, his eyes narrowing as he gauged their reactions. Without further questions, he pointed to a few benches near the altar. “These should be fine for tonight. As for food, all I can offer you is some water and stale bread.”

“We’ve brought our own provisions, so there’s no need to worry,” Tariq replied smoothly. “But if I may ask, why does Rodrigo take such particular care of this church?”

The priest, seemingly eager to discuss the man, continued: “Rodrigo is a beloved figure throughout Burgos, truly, and many call him a patron, but he does seem to care for this small house of God more than the others, likely because of the oath that here took place.”

“Oath?” Julien asked.

“It was right here that Rodrigo forced the now-king Alfonso VI to swear an oath that he had no involvement in the death of his brother, King Sancho II,” the priest explained, “we loved our king Sancho deeply, and for us here in Burgos - and indeed all of Castile - this oath was as significant as Alfonso’s coronation itself.”

For a moment, Urraca was lost in her own thoughts, until a realization dawned on her. “I remember why I’ve been here before!” She exclaimed, excitement lighting up her voice, “I couldn’t have been more than ten years of age at the time, but I remember coming to Burgos with my family, as part of the king’s entourage!” She pointed to a bench near the far end of the nave: “I was sitting there, with my mother, sisters, and uncles, but my father… he was right where we’re standing now,” she then gestured toward the altar, “while King Alfonso swore the oath in front of a priest and a man…”

“This priest you mentioned would be me, dear, and the man was indeed Rodrigo,” the priest interjected with an odd smile, “are you from the house of Osorio? Or perhaps the house of Lara? Maybe from a cadet branch of the Jimena?”

“I am Pedro Ansúrez’s daughter, priest,” Urraca replied with a sweet smile, “from the house of Banu Gomez.”

Now it was the priest’s turn to widen his eyes in surprise. “Oh, that is very interesting!” He exclaimed. “After the oath, King Alfonso, Rodrigo, and your father went into another room here in this church, where Rodrigo told me the king would swear an additional oath in front of him and your father,” the priest gestured toward a different area of the church, “after they were finished, Rodrigo instructed me to leave the room exactly as it was - I can only assume it was for its historical significance, and I’ve honored that request ever since.”

“Oh, I don’t remember that happening - how exciting!” Urraca’ voice was all excitement. “Would you mind if we took a look at the place?”

The priest hesitated briefly, thinking it over. “I’d say ‘no’ to most people, to be honest, but given that your father was involved...” He paused for a moment longer before nodding. “All right, let us go.”

After a short walk, the priest opened the door to the room, revealing what lay inside: The walls were made of the same sturdy stone as the rest of the church, the whole place completely covered in dust. There were no bookshelves, no books, no decorations or ornaments, absolutely nothing except for a tall stone table at the center, adorned with strange inscriptions and objects.

At least, that was how Urraca and the priest understood it. Tariq and Julien, on the other hand, immediately recognized something far more significant: the tall stone table was, surprisingly enough, a Solomon’s Table.

This time, Julien managed to conceal his emotions a bit better, merely exchanging a glance with Tariq. The look they shared was one of mutual understanding, their faces carefully masked with an attempt at stoicism - they both knew what had to be done.

…

The priest and Urraca exchanged a few more words before he guided the group back to the nave and then retired to the comforts of his own bedchamber. Not long after he left, however, Julien and Tariq began to briskly gather their belongings from the benches, urging Urraca to do the same.

“Wait, wait!” Urraca spoke loudly, her voice echoing in the quiet church. Julien immediately shushed her, pressing his index finger to his lips.

“What’s happening, Julien? Tariq?” She asked in a whisper, hurrying closer to the Enochians, “why are we leaving so abruptly?”

Without taking his eyes off the task at hand, Julien replied: “Your family and this church’s benefactor are at war, Urraca,” his voice blunt and serious, “I’m not willing to bet on where that priest’s loyalties lie. And also, there is…”

“There’s the Solomon’s Table,” Tariq interjected, “that stone table you saw - it’s a tool for exorcisms used by Enochians. I wonder what King Alfonso, Rodrigo, and your father had to do with it, since as far as I know, none of them are Enochians.”

“But my sister is, right?” Urraca responded quickly. “Maybe she has something to do with it!”

“I highly doubt an eleven-year-old María would’ve been able to use a Solomon’s Table, or even know what it is and what it does,” Tariq countered, his tone measured but firm, “but we definitely need to talk to her about it as soon as we have the chance.”

As they left the church, closing the heavy door behind them, they made their way to their horses. “You’re staying with us, Urraca,” Tariq said as he adjusted the horse’s harness, “we might’ve been fortunate that the priest wasn’t aware of the conflicts between your family and Rodrigo, but we can’t risk leaving you in a place where everyone seems to admire your enemy so intensely.”

Already mounted on Emerita, Julien added with a grim tone, “I pray to God your sister knows who she’s up against, Urraca,” he said, helping Robert onto the mare as well, “because there’s clearly more to this Rodrigo fellow than meets the eye.”